They'd Take Tea
by fragrantfields
Summary: How much can people change and still retain their sense of self? One year after the final episode, Al Swearengen recalls a conversation with Alma Ellsworth about the enjoyment of Black Darjeeling tea.
1. Chapter 1

**They'd Take Tea**

The evening was starting to cool. The stench of horse manure still lay heavy on the camp, but a breeze carried a hint of the forest from the surrounding hills. Smelled like autumn was coming. Alma Ellsworth finished making notes in her journal of bank business. Separate from the formal accounts Mr. Star kept, she liked to have a written record of the day's events.

_Mr. Arnsworth had looked bleak as he made a small deposit. _

_Mr. Riley had changed his mind about his deposit, putting down one hundred forty dollars' worth of gold, then changing his deposit to one hundred fifteen. _

She didn't know if any of this would be significant. But events would not catch her unawares again if she could help it.

She didn't know if an accounting and review of the particulars of her days would have changed any of the course of events that had made a her life a deadly whirlpool at times, but it might have given her an edge, a notion of what was ahead. Failing that, might notes jotted down have given her a chance to see, looking back, where she had stepped wrong, or when things first started to spiral out of control?

At any rate, her journal gave her a private place to mark each day that she abstained from numbing her feelings with various substances. She would look back next year, she thought, and see a journal full of a years' worth of stars. And so she would grow a visible foundation, even if only visible to her, for being a proper mother to Sofia, and an asset to the camp.

And a little part of her wanted to someday let the journal show to Trixie that she had consciously abstained, and took her clear-headedness seriously. Trixie smiled at her more, now, and she seemed not to be quite so angry in the course of the day. Alma knew Trixie had watched her for signs of going back on the opium after Mr. Ellsworth had been killed, and again when Mrs. Bullock had shyly mentioned that she would need help with teaching the camp's children as her time advanced.

But Alma was finding strength and comfort in little things, daily things. Sofia's blossoming as she healed from losing her second father gave her hope for her own healing. Alma marked notes about Sofia's day and her quiet observations about her ward in a journal kept at home.

With all the ways she documented her days, she was beginning to feel that she was writing more than living. Living, on a personal level, though, had proved a sad and scary activity. "Banker" was satisfactory. "Mother" was rewarding, if sometimes challenging and fraught with anxiety. "Alma"…perhaps "Alma" was better as a scrivener than as a woman out in the world.

"You taking root over there? School's been out for an hour. Why ain't you headed home yet?"

_Trixie had amazingly high standards for motherhood at times_, Alma thought to herself.

"I was just finishing up, Trixie. Sofia is having dinner with Anne's family this evening, so I'm not in a rush."

Trixie smiled at the thought of quiet Sofia having a best friend, visiting with her family, maybe chasing fireflies or playing with dolls before supper.

"That's nice, Alma. It's nice to see that child coming out of—" she stopped, unsure how to word what she was thinking. "Anyways, I'm glad she's doing little girl things. Glad for your sake, too."

Alma met Trixie's eyes_. And aren't we glad she's not being groomed to be bought and sold, for men's debts and appetites? Oh, yes, we surely are_.

Trixie put her ledgers away, waiting for Alma to lock up, spin the combination on the bank safe, and secure her hat before the two women left. Alma said a courteous "Good night, Mr. Daily" to the young man who guarded the bank in the evenings. He touched his hat brim, gave her a polite "Evening, Mrs. Ellsworth" and Trixie a friendly "Evening, Trixie". He would stay there until the night watchman for businesses at this end of town took over.

The camp was safer in some ways than it used to be as law and order became more expected. In other ways, the growth of the camp and influx of new people meant that there was more of the unknown. And Alma had not found "the unknown" to be a particular friend to her.

Trixie walked on to her rooms after saying goodnight. Alma sometimes envied Trixie her freedoms. She could leave her hair unbound, and could look to the temperature of the air to decide if she wanted to wear a shawl or not. Although Alma had gone from full to partial mourning some months ago, choosing soft greys, lavenders and the occasional muted purple, she still felt required to wear a hat, and shawl or jacket, and was always tightly laced. Brom's people had certainly expected a high standard of dress and decorum, and their expectations were made known well in advance of her first wedding. Old habits….

After marrying Mr. Ellsworth, she could have gotten away with the more casual attire of a mining manager's wife, she supposed, although she had never been "just" a wife. Her role as mine owner, then banker, kept her locked in a certain image.

And if she wanted to be completely honest with herself, she had an increased interest in presenting herself well as soon as Martha Bullock got off the stagecoach three years ago. That part of her life was over, she had thought, and she and Mrs. Bullock had formed a sturdy alliance in matters regarding educating the camp's children. Still, the news of the Sheriff's wife's pregnancy had engendered confusing feelings in Alma's breast. She touched her stomach lightly with her gloved hand as she remembered carrying Seth's baby.

Part of her almost wanted to confide in Mrs. Bullock, ask her if Seth's child made her as sick in the mornings as their child had made Alma. Madness, although she had been sure back then that Mrs. Bullock had figured out the way of things. Still, the woman had a right to enjoy looking forward to having a child again without any encumbrances from the past. _Martha must have her own sad demons, too, thinking of another child, fathered by another man._

Alma wondered if the other woman would compare each step of her pregnancy with how her course with William had gone. She thought maybe she wouldn't. Martha Bullock had always had a type of silvery steel about her, pure and strong, practical.

Alma felt she herself was moving towards strength and practicality, but purity was a quality she hadn't associated with herself since she learned of the cupidity and baseness of her father as a young girl. Alma sometimes saw herself in those early chunks of gold ore: hard, cloudy quartz, sharp and cold, with the warm vein of color running through it, only being of value after blasting, after crushing. She smiled at the apt metaphor. _Shall I take that all the way to feeling pinched out, or does that stretch into the overly dramatic? _

Her way home took her past the Gem Saloon. She could see Mr. Swearengen's shadowy figure on his balcony. As sometimes happened, she got a brief flash of the shock of bullets firing around her, her disbelief, then her terror. He had said, then, that you never get used to it. She wondered, if she asked, would he tell her you never forget being shot at? Or would he reassure her that her memory would fade in time? Either way, she realized she would believe what he said on the subject as if it were gospel.

She sighed as she realized she was putting trust in the man who most probably ordered Brom's death. She had thought such an act would be…unforgivable, that it would put the author ever in the category of men not to be trusted. She was not proud of herself that she really didn't feel much at all about her first widowing. _Mr. Swearengen had done more to protect her than Brom ever did,_ she thought, and then thought again of cold and cloudy quartz.

"Evening, Mrs. Ellsworth", he called down.

"Good evening, Mr. Swearengen. A bit cooler this evening, don't you think?"

He set his teacup down on the baluster. "I think you may be right, Mrs. Ellsworth. Mayhap the sign of an early Fall." He leaned over the railing. "I'll be sending a correspondence over by one of my men later this evening. No cause for alarm."

"Thank you for letting me know, Mr. Swearengen." She nodded and walked on.

Probably her mother would have called her trashy for standing in the thoroughfare conversing with any man. Conversing with a saloon and brothel owner would probably have gotten her disowned by her mother; her father would have been looking for a monetary angle to exploit.

She admitted to herself that she was glad of the advance notice. With only herself and Sofia at home, her first reaction to one of Mr. Swearengen's men on her doorstep would have been alarm and dread until the purpose was announced. And she had considerable experience of how long a second or two could take to pass, when fear was involved.

Sofia was done with supper and waiting for her mother when Alma walked by her friend's house. Her braid was starting to come undone and her cheeks had a healthy flush as she sat on the front steps whispering to Anne, giggling. Alma chatted with Anne's parents for a few minutes; a couple a bit younger than her, the husband plying his cobbler's trade. Plain folk, from one of the Southern states, looking for customers with a bit of coin to spend on trade and repairs.

After arriving home, Alma spent some time talking with Sofia about her day. The sums being calculated in school, the writing exercises. Her hope to climb up to the tree house built on the school " inside" tree. Sofia was most interested in telling Alma about Anne's new puppies, wet-nosed and snuffling greedily after their mother. Alma did a parental "we'll see, dear" with ease, remembering how many times her parents put off a request of hers with that phrase.

"_Is there no other way? Will I have to stay with him forever, Daddy?"_

"_We'll see, Button." _

She was no longer sure if this conversation had actually taken place or if it came from her guilty conscience.

Mr. Ellsworth had inherited a faithful dog, although he spent more time at the mine site than at their home. A dog…she wouldn't say "no" tonight. She really meant the "we'll see" she gave to Sofia.

There was a tentative knocking on her front door. Alma took her leave from Sofia, telling her to start getting ready for bed. She could see Johnny's sandy hair and beard through clear parts of the etched window set in the door. Johnny always seemed like the cleanest-handed man of Mr. Swearengen's. He held no reminders or suspicions of violent death. She would have been surprised and sad to learn his ambition was to be a full-fledged road agent.

Or it had been.

"Yes, Mr. Burns, Mr. Swearengen said you might call. Will you come in?" She stood back from the door.

She was almost sure she would issue the same invitation to Mr. Dority.

Almost.

There was Brom. But there was also Mr. Ellsworth.

She probably would.

Johnny Burns felt more conscious than usual of his everyday striped shirt, never all the way clean. Ladies like this always made him uncomfortable. He liked simpler women. He liked the new whore Lena, from Iowa. She could read almost as good as him but never acted like it was anything big.

Johnny now had an "other one" in his mind, as Al had after Trixie took up with the Jew. He tried not to think about the other one. He would never again work on teaching a whore to read.

"Uh, no, Ma'am, 'preciate it, but Al just told me to get this to you, and I was to wait on your response, if you have one. Or, if you don't, well, I guess that's like a response, ain't it? Anyways, here's your communication." He handed Alma a folded note.

_Mrs. Ellsworth,_

_I have acquired a supply of Black Darjeeling tea, fresh from India as of August. I have been assured of its quality by the seller, a British officer who purchased a quantity prior to leaving his posting. May I call on you to give you a portion? I recall we discussed tea at our first meeting, and would like your opinion as to the taste and quality. Please convey your response via Mr. Burns, if you are of a mind to permit me to call._

_Regards, _

_Albert E. Swearengen_

She re-folded the note_. What a nice, well-written note_, she thought. _He does have some gentlemanly…well, he writes a decent note. _


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

Al was still in a sweat from the fucking note-writing. How many ways were there to fuck up asking a woman if she wanted some goddamn tea, for Christ's sake?

That junior officer, probably unauthorizedly separated from the British Royal Navy, had come up cash-poor for pussy. Wanting a sample of Al's finest before heading for San Francisco (which seemed odd, but Al wasn't a questioning sort unless he sensed profit), the officer offered a box of tea from his saddlebags.

Dan had almost gutted him right there, but Al happened by and the topic captured his attention, it being a slow night anyways. Asked the ginger-headed Brit what kind of tea he thought was worthy of trading for pussy and a few shots. Brit started yammering about the Himalayas and so forth, enough for Al to get the gist of his offer: high-quality, floral, picked in early summer, Black Darjeeling.

Even Al's quick calculating mind wasn't sure of the dollar amount of value, but it did take him back to a conversation a few years ago, with the Widow Garrett, as she was then. Also made his missing finger twitch, but in that second, he could smell fragrant tea, rare and clean, rising from thin china cups.

_A woman free of disease, conversant, literate, sharing a cup of tea with him_. It made a nice picture. He could feel the warm cup in his hand. With Dan looking on in some disbelief, Al traded two pounds of tea for two fucks, a blow job, a bottle of bar whisky, and ten dollars' credit at faro.

The Brit separated out the tea using Al's scales. Jewel gave him a clean jar, carried from the kitchen in both her twisted hands. Al wrote out some scrip for the deal and carried the jar back to his office. Shutting the door, he sat down and carefully opened the jar. The smell of tea, flowers, and some other, indefinable delicate aroma met his nose. _Almost like perfume_, he thought. He wondered if the Brit had fucked Indian whores while posted there, if they were perfumed and mysterious and had worn rich silks?

He replaced the jar lid and came back to himself. Indian whores were most likely like American or Chinese or any other whores. Some young, most, sad, some slamming junk to make it through the day. Some hopeful, thinking good men would cross their paths. Some meeting their gods on a fire pit.

_Some getting their throats slit for purposes unfathomable._

Likely the Brit, the tea, and the wad of silk swatches still in his cupboard led to fanciful thoughts. He poured a shot of whisky and pulled out his good paper and sharp-nibbed pen, setting his ink well in front of him.

If Al had his way, he would be inquiring over the balcony if she wanted to come up for some fuckin' fancy tea. But he had a notion that a note asking about calling was the more fitting way to go. If anyone had asked him why he gave two shits about what was fitting, he couldn't have answered, other than to ask why the fuck his actions were being questioned.

He did get tired of regular folk acting like he was a trained circus bear when he displayed anything like manners, though. When he finally called Johnny to deliver the note, he shoved the 3 page stack of false starts into his desk drawer. Goddamn it, he wasn't some rube cocksucker with no idea of what was right and what was ignorant. It just took him a bit to put it all together.

Alma mentally composed an appropriate response to the note.

"Mr. Burns, please tell Mr. Swearengen he may call tomorrow afternoon at 2:00. I shall make arrangements to have my desk attended to by others in my employ. And tell him I appreciate his kind offer to share his…fortuitous acquisition."

Johnny looked at her, then at his feet, then back up at her. "Mrs. Ellsworth, I might need for you to write all that down."

She smiled, stopping before it edged into "haughty cunt" territory.

"Two o'clock, tomorrow. I will be at home then. For Mr. Swearengen to call."

Johnny smiled with some relief. He liked women who used smaller words, generally speaking, and Mrs. Ellsworth could get fancier-talking than Mrs. Bullock, even with her being a school teacher and all.

_Two o'clock, tomorrow._Easy enough to remember.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3

Alma's thoughtful composition of a print ad for the Bank of Deadwood was interrupted by the clatter of a china teacup put down with some force by her elbow. She looked up at Trixie, whose lips were set in a harsh, straight line.

"Heard you were thirsting after some tea. Thought this might save you some trouble."

"Trixie, I had tea at breakfast. There's no need—"

"There's not? Good. I'm glad to hear it." She continued to stand there, looking down at Alma.

"I assume you are referring to Mr. Swearengen offering to bring me some tea. Is that what has you rattling the china this morning?"

Trixie bent over Alma, close to her ear so the customers wouldn't hear.

"Johnny Burns tends to chatter about the unusual, as long as it don't seem likely to get his throat cut. And while I wouldn't say he betrayed any confidences, he did make mention of visiting you last evening on direction from himself. And that I'd best not count on having a slow afternoon, as I'd be likely taking your place in your after-lunch absence.

"Alma, what the _fuck_?" She turned to look into Alma's eyes.

A year ago, Alma would have looked away, gaze fluttering all around. Now, she returned Trixie's steady look with one equally steady.

"Trixie, Mr. Swearengen is simply offering to bring me some tea this afternoon. I don't see-"

"Alma? Whenever I hear you call Al "Mr. Swearengen", it makes me feel just a little bit pukey. You know what he is. You know what he did. How can you have him in your home?"

Alma stiffened. "I know we _both_ have run to him for safety, even when we both had other men standing ready, men that we could more properly claim for protection."

"That was different. That was when Death itself was stalking the camp."

Alma stood and walked towards the private office at the back of the bank. "Trixie, would you please ask Mr. Star to look to the front of the bank for a few minutes?'

Trixie went over Sol, pointedly focused on his store accounts he had carried over that morning.

"Can you watch over here a few more minutes? She's got a bee in her bonnet and has some talk she thinks she can't wait."

He raised his eyebrows. "Didn't seem like there were any bees flying around her bonnet until you started talking to her this morning."

"Don't you start, Mr. Star. You see a child walking in a runaway horse's path, do you not at least try to yank its sleeve, trying to get it out of harm's way?'

"Yes, but I don't rip a grown woman's sleeve off her arm over my fear of a horse-shaped shadow. "

She looked at him, seeing the chasm between his experiences and hers. "You are a fucking trusting Jew."

"I'm also a fucking busy Mayor and hardware store owner. Just…go have your chat, and please, for God's sake, make it brief and civil. I've got a full plate myself and it would be nice to walk out of here knowing that the bank President hasn't been scolded into a weeping spell by her head teller."

"There's more disruptive things than a weeping spell, Mr. Mayor. Five minutes." She turned in a swirl of skirts and blond hair and walked towards the back.

Alma was standing by a small desk in the back room. She intended to make this quick. She had been trying to imagine how Martha Bullock would react, tried to channel some of that calm, matter-of-fact demeanor.

Trixie started before she had fully closed the door.

"If you won't think of yourself, Alma, can you spare a thought for the child? If you intend to make this her home, can you not see how she'd be affected by your keeping company with a pimp? Do you want her to be tainted with that?"

" I don't fear her being tainted, as long as she stays in Deadwood, by her—her _de facto_ godmother being a former whore." She took a breath. "Or by her adoptive mother being a suspected murderess. Or being suspected of other misdeeds."

Trixie snorted. Alma was treading on touchy ground. "Seems like there's enough "whore" in this room to go around."

Alma didn't rise to the challenge. "Indeed. My point being that I am less afraid of such labels here in this camp than I would be in towns with more…refined expectations. We both have worn labels we'd prefer left to the past."

"Exactly my fucking point! Why drag up old muck by socializing with a fucking brothel keeper? And that's not me saying nothing against Al that he wouldn't fucking say himself." "

"Trixie, is it possible Mr. Swearengen—Al—would like to put some of the muck behind, as well? He is an influential man of the camp, I am president of the camp's bank…is it so outlandish that we occasionally visit, without suggestion of an improper relationship?"

Trixie rolled her eyes. "I don't guess it's any more outlandish that the whore the Mayor used to fuck happening to rent rooms next fucking door to His Honor's house." She threw up her hands and started pacing in the small office.

"Or that you and Mrs. Bullock can sit and plan a fucking camp library without once thinking about both having been on the Sherriff's prick. "Welcome to fuckin' Deadwood-can be outlandish!" should be carved in a fucking plaque put up in the thoroughfare."

Trixie stopped and put a hand on Alma's shoulder, speaking more calmly. "Look, go ahead and take your fucking tea. Just remember he spent more years cutting throats and buying whores not much older that Sofia, than he spent being town fucking father. That man's life makes one complicated ledger, for sure. I suppose I wouldn't have you ignore the positive side, but I damn sure wouldn't have you think that cancels out the negative, either. It don't make nothing go away or get undone." She looked at her watch brooch and squeezed Alma's shoulder. "I better go relieve my Jew."

She walked to the door and turned. "I'm not telling you what to do. I'm just telling you some facts to keep in mind, you being the clear-headed grown woman I know you are."

Alma thought she heard some unexpected trust there, even if that last sounded a bit forced. She shouldn't be surprised. Trixie always seemed braced to accept trust broken. Trust came as hard to Trixie as it used to come easily to Alma.

_Are some people born seeing the middle ground? Or does everyone have to find it on their own?_she wondered. 


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4

Alma wondered if she should remind Trixie that she would need to leave early. She didn't want to get Trixie offering her opinions again, not just now. Her advertisement was almost complete and ready to deliver to Mr. Merrick. Still needed a bit of polishing, though.

She checked the bank clock. 1:00—plenty of time to walk home, put a kettle of water on the boil, set out the sweet biscuits she had bought this morning. _Trixie would ask where the booze was, _she thought_**. **_

_No, Trixie would ask where the fucking booze was. _Alma wondered if the obscenities Trixie and others here employed so readily helped to clarify meaning. She had been brought up to consider that kind of language coarse and vulgar.

She stood and brushed the wrinkles from her violet skirt, making sure that the drape from her bustle was even and symmetrical. _Yet the worst lies, the most chilling threats I've heard spoken to me have been in the most decorous language. _She thought proper language might be a concept that could bear re-examining.

Alma left her bank again, and if her steps were any quicker as she walked towards her home, that could be put to the cooler weather. Or possibly Trixie's look, worried and warning as Alma gathered her things, made her that much more ready to hurry on her way. She resisted the impulse to say "it's just tea!" to Trixie as she left. She thought that didn't feel quite right.

"_It's just fucking tea!" _Thinking of saying that, she thought she could see some of the appeal of coarse language.

Reaching her well-built home with its gracious lines, she unlocked the heavy front door. Her key was substantial, a heavy weight in her hand. She remembered the day Mr. Ellsworth had laid it in her palm. _It's your house, Mrs. Ellsworth. You should have the first key. _That had sounded so respectful and kind.

They had hired workmen for most of the house, but Mr. Ellsworth had done the trim for Sofia's room by hand. After coming home from the mine, head full of miners' conflicts and black memories, he would spend a couple of hours turning thin lumber into graceful crown molding and chair rail. Sometimes Sofia would ask him to make a bird, or a flower, and he would place a simple carving at her direction.

The baby's room had been simpler. They would have decorated more after the baby came, staying with basic clean lines until they knew if it would be a boy or a girl. She thought about offering the cradle to the Bullocks. Mr. Ellsworth had made a good start on the frame before…_before we found out we wouldn't need a cradle. _She pinched her lip under her nose. That was supposed to stop tears, somebody told her once_. Before we found out we wouldn't need a fucking cradle. _

_My goodness, _she thought. _Adding expletives to a sad thought seemed to work almost as well as the lip-pinching thing. _

One day, when she and Trixie were on better terms, she would ask her if that's why she swore so much. If swearing helped with sadness as well as anger and impatience.

She put away her gloves and hat, put some water in the kettle to heat, poking up the stove's banked fire, and lit the oil lamps in the sitting room and kitchen. Some afternoon sun was coming through the windows now, but dusk was coming earlier as the weather turned cool. She recalled that Mr. Swearengen's face could take on a frightening cast if seen in shadows. She didn't really see that herself, but Sofia's wariness around him in the past had been palpable.

Mr. Ellsworth's kindness and light complexion had never needed much illumination for the gentleness to show. Mr. Bullock…he had always been lit to a fine fire by inner righteousness or guilty passion.

_Bastard._

Brom, she supposed, had a visage of watered down milk. She had only started to realize this year how much of her past memories had been blurred by her laudanum fog. A logical reason why so little was memorable about her first marriage.

Mr. Swearengen, though, reminded her of the dark brown-gold whisky he sold. She remembered times she had had a glass of whisky in his office. The slight sweetness and rough burn had a temptation to it, once the memories of the circumstances had diminished. Finding the tea cloths, the cups, the other pieces of her tea service, she thought it was probably a good thing that she didn't keep any liquor in the house.

Alma patted her hair in front of the hall mirror as the clock started to strike 2:00. Her hand rose to pinch her cheeks to bring up her color before she fully realized what she was doing. She dropped her hand back down to smooth her skirt again. He was surrounded by women with rouged lips and cheeks. Nipples, too, from what she remembered. She glanced at her reflection again. It seemed embarrassment was just as effective as pinching to create a flush.

She saw his shape through the frosted door just before he knocked. Short, to project such strength. _Menace, ruthlessness, must add height,_ she thought. And knowing that, she wondered what on Earth it said about her, that the other words that came to her mind were words like "safe" and "protected".

_Trixie would have said "it means you never felt his fucking boot on your neck", or maybe "it means you still can't judge men for shit",_ Alma thought, as she opened the door.


	5. Chapter 5

Part 5

Al stood, fidgeting a bit on the front steps. He always felt somewhat unnatural out and about in the camp. Too visible, too many people noticing that he had broken his routine, wondering what was important enough to bring him out of the Gem. Now there would be speculation on what brought him, carrying a small package, to the widow's doorstep.

He had gotten out of the Gem before Dan or Johnny noticed he was wearing a shirt under his vest. He thought he had gotten a sidelong glance from Adams, but with those fucking hooded eyes of his, it was hard to tell. Jewel had brought him a clean flour sack for the jar of tea before he was fully dressed, so no gimp inquiry there.

His fucked-up finger meant he would have needed to ask for some help with his fine black cravat, so that was left wherever the fuck it got to, last time the gimp decided to tidy his room. But he was fresh-shaven around his mustache and goatee, and his neck was clean. Presentable enough for the occasion. If Mrs. Ellsworth had a need to view dandies, he was pretty sure she knew where to find them.

He watched her blurred shadow through the door, catching a look at her hair through the clear parts of the design. _Woman had some elegant hair, _he thought_. Even the grey in a spot or two was coming in smooth and silvery._

Alma opened the door with a smile.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Swearengen. Please come in."

He noticed she kept her eyes on him, didn't shoot a look around to see who was on the street, who might have seen him entering her home. There was a time when that kind of carelessness had come from her naiveté of how society worked, even here. Her honest smile and the welcoming touch on his shoulder as he entered her home, all visible from the street, made him wonder if there was some of that naiveté left, or if she just didn't care anymore.

He walked around, admiring the house she and Mr. Ellsworth had built. He thought about the tents that had lined the muddy track that had passed for the thoroughfare his first months here. _Camp's come a long fuckin' way. Need to start sayin' "town" instead of camp one of these days. _

Small talk about the coming Fall, the plans for a library, and Al's appreciation of her home filled the air as she fussed with the tea set, the silver, and the biscuits. He followed her back into the kitchen when the water was almost ready, handing her the jar.

"Go ahead and take a whiff of that, tell me what you think." He had a note of pride in his voice.

She sat at the kitchen table, smiling at the pleasure he was taking from something so ordinary. Opening the jar, she leaned and inhaled deeply.

"Oh, my".

She breathed again. Beyond the scent she thought of as "tea", she smelled delicate flowers, maybe after a light rain. At first, she thought the tea smelled like perfume a young girl would wear. But then there was an almost musky under-note of fat grapes, heavy with sugars, still on the vine. Her third and deeper sniff made her wish for a woman's perfume like this for herself.

She looked up at an amused Al, eyebrows raised, mouth between a smirk and a smile.

"I can leave you alone with that, if you like."

She smiled in return, seeing herself nose-deep like a mare with a sack of sweet-feed.

"I'm sorry, but it is quite lovely. I don't think I've ever smelled any tea so…complex. So many scents…"

She went on for a minute about the notes, the perfume. Al didn't follow all the flowery talk of "evoking" and the like, but he liked listening to her. Liked seeing her simply happy, enjoying something that wasn't a triumph, or a goal…just something that was nice in its own right. She looked younger when she was like this.

"So, I take it this is good shi—stuff."

"Oh, yes." She inhaled again.

"You think maybe we could try drinkin' some of it now? I don't want to step on your good time, but it _is_ tea, right?" He was feeling more comfortable with her, like kidding around might be okay.

"Of course." She took the teapot, all graceful lines, cream with roses and gold bands, over by the sink.

"Nice teapot. Family heirloom?"

She looked over her shoulder. "Daddy said it was my grandmother's wedding tea service. He gave it to me for Christmas, twenty years ago."

She set the inner strainer aside and picked up the kettle.

"Of course, he really got it in a card game he bought into on Christmas Eve, when his mark ran out of cash, and all the shops had been closed for hours."

_The tea set smelling of dust and cigar smoke. Her father smelling of bourbon. His lie about the tea set, her lie about believing him._ _If everyone lies enough, it can look close enough to happiness to work._

She carefully poured the hot water into the teapot.

"Mrs. Ellsworth. Aren't you forgetting something?" The tea was still on the table.

"Oh, no, Mr. Swearengen. First you have to prepare the teapot, make it good and warm first. It's the first step to making good tea."

"Huh. Did not know that. Of course, Jewel makes tea and the like for me. I want a cup of tea, it's just there when I ask. I don't know that I thought much about the process. Is getting the pot ready that important? Seems like a waste of hot water."

"Well, your kitchen's teapot may be a more sturdy type, but generally, if you get the receptacle nice and hot first, the tea stays warm much longer. Surely it's better to waste a bit of hot water than have half a pot of cold tea. At least, this caliber of tea."

"Makes sense. I'm learning something here. Always good to learn new information."

"I hope this isn't boring you."

"Oh, hell, no. Besides thinkin' you'd enjoy this, I'd enjoy learning how to handle teas and such that's a better quality than my usual cup. Learning something new ain't never boring, Mrs. Ellsworth."

She sat then, carefully measuring out spoonfuls of fragrant tea into the strainer, readying the kettle. As she poured, she asked him to check his pocket watch and tell her when three minutes were up.

"See, now I'm learning something else new. I have no fuckin—excuse me—I have no idea how long Jewel lets the tea steep. But that's a big deal, hmm?"

Alma thought about how she had been taught to make tea by a fine lady of her father's acquaintance.

"Tea like this, Mr. Swearengen, is not the _most _delicate, but still much more delicate than what we're used to here. Drink it too soon and it's weak and insipid, the lovely qualities not having had a chance to bloom.

"Steep it too long and the tannins strengthen too much. Their bitterness overwhelms the floral and fruit aroma, wasting the qualities that make it special. Drinking tea like that can make a person agitated and irritable."

Her eyes softened with past memories, more refined times. Her speech slowed.

"Poured at the right time, though…the color is clear and deep, the delicate aromas are at the forefront, and the tannins are present just enough to give some backbone. You then have a cup that is a delight to the eyes and tongue, a hint of sweet and richness, just a touch complicated in flavor, adequately stimulating, yet ultimately relaxing."

She flushed at her excessive explanation. "Well, have I rattled on for the required three minutes?" _Good Lord,_ _did I just make tea-making sound…erotic? I was just trying to be…precise._

He checked his watch." Almost. A few more seconds." _That's the lustiest description of fuckin' tea-making I've ever heard. First time a fuckin' recipe ever stiffened my prick._

He cleared his throat. "It's time."

She startled inwardly at his deeper tone. He gestured at the pot.

"Three minutes is up. Go ahead and pour."

She stood up. "We should go into the sitting room. Everything is laid out there. I should have thought about that sooner instead of chattering."

He noted her flush, the pulse at her throat. _She breathin' different? Fuckin' corset's probably laced too tight. _A memory of her and a loosened corset went through his mind. He wasn't as surprised by the effect that had on him. He figured any notice of awkwardness of gait, he could put down to age. He smiled._ Not appropriate, but nice to know just thinkin' about things can still bring a hard-on._

He walked with her as she carried the teapot, setting it down on the tea table. He touched her wrist to get her attention. He could still pull off a little suggestive sweet-talk, he thought, even as out of practice as he was. At least show her he was willing to try.

"I imagine waiting just a little wouldn't make an otherwise exceptional tea so bitter as to be undrinkable." He smiled, his eyes dark. His fingers lingered on her wrist." I'm sure it will still be much better than what I'm used to."

_Bless the sensibility of ladies that keep their eyes above the waist._

"I'm…I'm sure you're right," she said, as they sat on the small settee. She poured the tea into thin china cups.

The color was a deep, clear gold, a shade or two lighter than whisky. The aroma was a delicate version of the stronger scent coming from the loose tea. Still floral and that faint musky touch of grape, now maybe a hint of a stone fruit in the mix. Each held their cup in both hands, enjoying the warmth. Each took their first sip and smiled with satisfaction.


	6. Chapter 6

Part 6

The clock chimed 3:00.

There were a couple of sweet biscuits left. The teapot was empty. They had each tried the Black Darjeeling plain, then with a teaspoon of sugar, then a bit of milk. It was lovely each way. Al started identifying some of the fancier qualities Alma pointed out.

Both had taken a mental step back from their kitchen conversation, each telling themselves that these interesting thoughts could be revisited another time. After the second cup, she had fetched a reference book and read aloud a couple of paragraphs about the Himalayas and tea farming. It was, as Al had hoped it would be, a pleasant, enjoyable visit, with no angling, no manipulation.

And with a bonus of a few minutes of sexual heat. He could live with that. Nice cup of tea, an erection, some mental images for his next blow job, some banter with a handsome woman. He felt relaxed, even after three cups of tea in an hour.

It was going to be tough going back to the Gem's tea. Maybe he could drop down a notch or two in quality and still have something similar. Different grades, different prices. Of course, the Gem's tea came with the atmosphere of the Gem. Once in a while, he did get tired of the pressure of turning a profit every day, although he never got tired of the money.

There had been an awkward pause when she asked if he would mind telling her the approximate cost of the tea, should she seek more after this was gone.

"Hard to give you a figure, Mrs. Ellsworth. The price was established as was your father's teapot—a young man wanted more recreation than he had cash. We worked out a trade of goods and services for the tea. I think we both thought the terms satisfactory.

"I could be more specific if you're that set on determining a monetary value, but I would need to get into the particulars of my whores' services and prices."

"I see." She suppressed an urge to smile. _It really is fucking tea_, she thought.

"What counts is what the next purveyor of fine teas would charge, is my thinking. I'll make inquiries, see what's what, hmm? "

Now noticing the time, Al stood.

"Mrs. Ellsworth, I really enjoyed this. Thanks for having me over. You brew a swell pot of tea, and I feel I'm leaving your home a more educated man on the subject."

Alma stood as well. "Thank you so much for the tea, Mr. Swearengen. I would not have thought to seek out that type on my own. You have expanded my horizons and given me a delightful afternoon. I am grateful for your-" she stumbled a bit. _Friendship? Acquaintance?_ "-your gift."

"Well, I'd best be down the thoroughfare before school lets out." He started towards the door.

"Oh, you don't need to leave now on Sofia's account. I think it might be good for her to see you as…not so frightening. "

She thought about making a simple supper for the three of them. Sitting down to a table with a man again. Having a final cup of tea after.

Al sighed inwardly_, _hand on the door_. Jesus Christ, even the refined and educated have a "loopy cunt" side. _

"Mrs. Ellsworth, if Sofia and her little school chums see me leaving your home, one, if not more, will go home talking about the man who stands above the Gem taking tea, in private, with her mother. How will you explain to her the sudden reluctance of her friends' parents to allow them to visit here?"

She drew up some. "Well, I don't think that would be her friends' parents' business, who visits me in my home." _He sounds like Trixie._

_Oh, my God, she's doing that fuckin' fairy bubble thing again_, he thought.

"Mrs. Ellsworth, thinkin' that don't make it so.

"I would enjoy taking tea with you again. I-I like knowing a person like you." He took her hand for a second. "You're all right," he said in an easy rumble.

He let go of her hand. _Time to put a prick in her bubble_, he thought, stepping out onto the porch.

"But right now, I need to go make sure my liquor's flowing, money's comin' in over my tables, and my whores are fuckin' and suckin' at a reasonably profitable clip. I fear drinks may get over-poured and whores'll offer hand jobs, I'm not there to keep an eye on things. You understand."

The shift to his crude description of the Gem's business didn't shock her, really, but it got his message across. She walked onto the porch with him, looking at his face until he met her eyes.

"Certainly, Mr. Swearengen. I do understand business before pleasure, and I take your other point. Thank you again and I hope to see you soon." She smiled.

As he turned towards the steps, she added "And I do hope, in your absence, there weren't enough hand jobs given to affect the day's profits."

Halfway down the steps, he thought_, did I hear that right? Did she just say "hand job"?_

He kept walking. "You and me both, Mrs. Ellsworth. You and me both."

He was back in the Gem when the school bell rung for dismissal.


	7. Chapter 7

Part 7

"Hey, Boss, where you been? You're looking mighty spiffy." Johnny called from behind the bar.

"Out. Anything happen I should know?"

"Not really. Been steady but quiet."

"I like the sound of "steady". Bring me the paper, and tell Jewel I want to see her."

He was halfway through the front page when Jewel came to the bar. After he unruffled her feathers about her thinking something was wrong with her tea, she agreed to let him know when she got the order sheet from the grocer, see if they couldn't get a better grade.

Dan came in well after dark with some fresh deer, shoulder and loin. Lines in front of Wu's meat locker were getting longer all the time. "Fuck this, Boss. I'm gonna take a long gun out this weekend, get our own goddamn deer."

He stopped in front of Al, got a good look at him over the deer.

"Shirt, huh?"

Al put his glasses down. "Yeah. Good eye you got there."

"Just sayin'," Dan shrugged as he headed for the kitchen.

Alma had the tea things washed and put away by the time Sofia came home. She wasn't hiding anything, exactly, just forestalling curious questions. She'd get enough of those tomorrow. She did show Sofia the jar of tea, let her smell it, and explained it was a special, very nice kind. The little girl knitted her brow when Alma told her Mr. Swearengen brought it, but soon went into a detailed discussion of when Anne's puppies would be ready to leave their mother.

It was not until Alma was in bed that she let herself go back over the curious turns her conversation with Mr. Swearengen had taken. So many double meanings. Sort of playing at a flirtation that neither would take seriously. Altogether, with the excellent tea, the comfortable conversation, the laughter…a thoroughly enjoyable visit.

Her mind went to their leave-taking. She thought he had been trying to protect her again, in his way.

She couldn't believe she had made that "hand job" remark. She'd been married twice, had a torrid affair that shook the rafters, a couple of others not worth remembering, but that was something she'd never had occasion to do. She certainly hadn't ever used the term in casual conversation.

She fell asleep wondering what it would feel like, stroking a man that way with a firm, beringed hand, until he released himself in her palm.

Across and down the thoroughfare, Al thought about the day while Dolly sucked his prick. Teasing the widow, enjoying her sensual pleasure in the tea, it had been a fine afternoon until he had to bring her back to reality a bit.

Any kind of regular visiting was out of the question, but on occasion, maybe it wouldn't hurt. He did want to talk with her about a business venture he was thinking about, in her role as banker. And that could include a need to meet over a cup of tea, maybe in his office.

Yeah, he could put her in his "he's/she's all right" book, even with her loopy fairy-dust side. Her sweep of dark hair, her tiny waist, the suggestion of firm tits under all those clothes, his memory of her opened corset…that made up for a lot of loopy.

Dolly shifted some weight off her knees. _I'm sure not gonna get yelled at for not sucking cock right tonight,_ she thought. She didn't know what he'd gotten up to today, but something was giving him the best hard-on she'd seen up here in quite a while.

_I can't believe that woman said "hand-job" to me_, he thought. _She's got a funny fuckin' side to her._

He looked down at Dolly. _She'll be getting to bed early tonight_, he thought. He looked at her hands, one on the bed, one on his thigh. They were coarse, with bitten fingernails, some of the days' grime still visible.

He wrapped his good hand in red curls. He thought about Alma stroking, jerking his prick until he came in her soft smooth hand. His eyes were closed as he finished in Dolly's mouth.


End file.
